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BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


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U 


^=^ 


fi./A.  p.  p. 


C  ENGLISH 


BEING 

^4   COLLECTION  OF  SHOBTEB  CLASSIC  POEMS, 

FROM   CHAUCER  TO  TENNYSON. 


Jewels  live-words  long 
That  on  the  stretched  fore-finger  of  all  Time 
Sparkle  forever. 

Tennyson.— 77//>  Princes* 


Las  Yegas;  New  Mexico. 

Pollege  Press 
1884. 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/classicenglishpoOOIasvrich 


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CLASSIC  ENGLISH 


D 


BEING 

A   COLLECTION  OF  SHORTER  CLASSIC  POEMS, 

FROM  CHAUCER  TO  TENNYSON. 


Jewels  five-words  long 
That  on  the  stretched  fore-finger  of  all  Time 
Sparkle  forever. 

Tennyson—  The  Princess. 


W$  YE$H$  C0LLE6E, 

Las  Vegas,  New  Mexico. 

POLLEGE  J^RESS. 
1884. 


U2. 


i    (  I h  RARY 


PREFACE. 

Collections  of  poems  are  already  so  many  that  for  attain \g  one 
more  however  unpretending — to  the  number — a  word  of  expla- 
nation seems  necessary.  The  present  one  is  intended  to  supply 
a  icant  in  colleges  and  schools  which  could  not  well  be  supplied 
by  thelarger  anthologies:  and  herein  lies  its  only  apology  for 
existence. 

A  collection  of  the  shorter  masterpieces  of  classic  poetry  is 
certainly  needed  which  will  serve  for  the  double  purpose  of 
illustrating  the  style  of  the  master-poets  in  their  lesser  flights, 
and  of  furnishing  poems  to  be  committed  to  memory  which  are 
altogetlier  unobjectionable  in  matter  and  manner. 

For  this,  the  admirable  volumes  already  before  the  public  are 
hardly  suitable:  they  are  all  too  costly  and  too  unwieldy  to  be 
used  as  class-books;  besides  which,  they  contain  a  great  deal  of 
matter  that  would  be  somewhat  out  of  place  in  text-books  for 
fhe  young.  To  avoid  these — in  this  case — undesirable  qualities 
of  costliness  and  bulk  and  inappropriate  subject-matter  has  been 
the  aim  of  the  compiler. 

He  has  endeavoured  to  present  in  a  convenient  shape  a  collec- 
tion of  poems — the  choicest  of  the  best — that  will  be  found  amply 
sufficient  for  the  purposes  indicated  above.  And  therefore,  he 
has  attended  more  especially  to  the  quality  of  the  poems  intro- 
duced than  to  their  number,  admitting  only  those  that  are  as 
free  from  objectionable  modes  of  thought  and  expression  as  from 
the  sin  of  mediocrity;  so  that  they  may  be  as  little  prejudicial  to 
the  morals  of  young  pupils  as  to  their  nascent  literary  taste. 

Las  Vegas  College, 
May  i,  1884. 


CONTENTS. 


A mong  the  beautiful  Pictures Alice  Cary 

Alexander's  Feast Dryden 

Allegro,  L' Milton    . 

Apology,   Au Morris 

'  Aspecta  M'  tlusa D.  G.  Rossetti 

Ave  !  D.  G.  Rossetti 

Ave  Maria ! Scott 

Baby,  The    Sir.  W.  Jones 

Before  Sedan    .4.  Dobson 

Break,  break,  break Tennyson 

Bugle  Song   Tennyson. 

Change Southwell,  S.  J. 

Chevy  Chase Anonymous 

Childhood Lamb 

Chorus  from  " Atalanta" Swinburne 

Daffodils Wordsworth 

Day  is  Done,  The .' Longfellow 

Dead  Friends ...    Keble 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The Byron     . 

Deserted  Village,  The Goldsmith 

Early  Friendship A,  de  Vere 

Easter Herbert 

Echo  and  Silence Brydges 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard Gray 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  H Ben  Jonson 

Farewell Moore     . 

Flowers Crashaw 

K  lowers  without  Fruit  .    .    Card.  Newman 

Folding  the  Flocks Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Forasken  Garden,  A  Swinburne 

Friendship Emerson 

God's  A" re Longfellow 

(Grasshopper  and  Cricket Hunt 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket Keats     . 

Harp  of  Tara   The Moore     . 

He  who  died  at  Azan E.  Arnold 

Highland  Reaper,  The Wordsworth 

Hohenlinden Campbell 

Hymn  before  Suniise  in  the  vale  of  ChamouinCo/erid^e 

incident  of  the  French  Camp R.  Browning 

*Isles  of  Greece,  The Byron     , 

Life Mr*.  Barbaul 

Eight Bourdillon 

Lochinvar Scoff 

L  >ve's  Service Southwell,  S.  J. 

Lost  Days V.  Rossetti 

Lucy Wordsworth 

May-time .  Chaucer 


96 

129 

65 

103 

102 

44 

94 

84 

50 

14 

116 

116 

16 

29 

78 

12 

101 

90 

49 

53 

104 

95 

115 

25 

124 

80 

123 

24 

37 

121 

108 

32 


107 

81 

76 

13 

126 

106 

91 

79 

52 

89 

125 

43 

112 

100 


Memory Landor ny 

Minstrel's  Song    The Chatterton 80 

Mother-lore; Montgomery  -        ....   105 

M'  Pherson's  Farewell Burnt 80 

Musical  Instrument,  A E.B.Browning     -        -        -        -138 

My  Captain Whitman 113 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands Burns 133 

My  Native  Land O'R-illy 13: 

O  Breathe  not  his  name Moore. 108 

Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn Keats 83 

Ode  to  Autumn Keafs      ...         ...     77 

Ode— How  sleep  the  brave. Collins. 128 

On  First  Opening  Chapman's  Homer Keats 139 

On  the  receipt  oi  my  Mother's  Picture Cowper 98 

Passions,  The Collins 1(9 

Po;is<  roBO.  II Milton 71 

Pillar  olthe  Cloud.  The..- Card.  Newman      -        -        -        -105 

Piping  down  the  Valleys Blake 9 

Oua  <  nrsum  Ventus Clough 48 

Rebecca's  Hymn Scott 38 

Recollections Swinlume 14 

Knth Hood  13(5 

she  walks  in  beauty Byron     -  -  134 

Song  lor  St.  Cecilia's  Day.  A, liryden 10 

Song— Gather  ye  Rosebud* He'rruk 15 

Under  The  Greenwood  Tree Shakespeare 95 

M   —When  1  am  dead C.  Q.  Rnssetti         -        -        -        -    97 

Sonnet—  Sad  in  our  youth A.dVere 114 

"    —Shall  I  compare  thee Shakespeare 115 

,,    — Sweet  is  the  rose Spenser 137 

,,    —When  to  the  sessions Shakespeare 08 

Spring Beaumont  and  Fletcher  -         -  1 33 

World  is  too  much  with  us,  The Wordsworth 35 

Stanzas  to  Augusta Byron 87 

St.  Monica M.Arnold 24 

Stormy  Petrel,  The Barry  Cornwall     -        -        -        -  120 

Thanatopsis Bryant 33 

To  Lucasta Lor  dace 124 

To  Our  Blessed  Lady Wordsworth 114 

To  the  Skylark Shelley 40 

To  Thomas  Moore Byron 51 

Ulysses Tennyson 117 

Vexilla  Regis, ....Anonymous 36 

Vigil  of  Montserrat,  The Prout 135 

Virtue Herbert 132 

Wake  A  gain ! Kinasley 47 

We  are  Seven Wordsworth-  -     30 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered Shelley 75 

Wood  Spurge,  The D.Rossetti 52 


^*>FJIEtPIPEI^ 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  elond  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me:  — 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb;  " 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again  :  " 
80  I  piped  he  wept  to  hear. 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe  " 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer  ;  " 
So  I  sang  the  same  again, 
While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book  that  all  may  read—  " 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight; 
And  T  plucked  a  hollow  reed. 

And  T  made  a  rural  pen, 
And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Kvery  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

Will 'am  Blake 


10 


From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began  ; 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 

And  would  not  have  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  ! 
Then  cold  and  hot,  and  moist  and  dry, 

In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 
And  Music's  power  obey. 
Prom  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began  : 

From  harmony  to  harmony, 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran 

The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell ! 
When  .lubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listeniug  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell, 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passions  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 
The  trumpets  loud  clangor 

Kxcites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger, 
And  mortal  alar  a,  s. 
The  double  double  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries,  Hark  !  the  foes  come; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat! 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DA  V. 

The  soft  complaining  fluty 

iii  dying  notes  discovers 

The  woes  of  helpless  lovers. 
Those  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs,  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic,  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passsion 

Foe  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 
But  O,  what  art  can  teach, 

What  human  voice  can  reach, 
The  sacred  organ's  praise? 

Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  ahove. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race  ; 
And  trets  uproottd  left  tilth"  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre, 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher; 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared 

Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacrtd  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die. 
And  Music  shall  out  tune  the  sky. 

John  Dkydkn 


1  2 


<-DflFFGDIh;S-:= 


I  wandered  lonly  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hill*, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd — 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  the  bay: 

Ten  thousand  saw  I,  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  ; 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 
In  such  a  jocund  company  ; 

I  gazed  and  gazed,  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 
And  when  my  heart  with  pleasure  tills, 
And  dances  with  the  datfodills. 

William  Wordsworth. 


13 


On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

Hut  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'T  is  morn,  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Hhout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy, 


I4  HOHENUNDEN. 

The  combat  deepens.    On  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Camp  a  \.u 


•:B^E^K:BI^E/iK:BI^E7IK-.- 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stone,  O  sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  are  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  I 

O  well  fjr  the  sailor  lad 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  goe  on, 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill  ; 
But  O  for  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

ALIBEI)  TSfXYH  V 


'5 


*WSeeitftECTI8$5« 

Years  upon  years,  and  tiia  flame  of  love's  high  altar 
Trembles  and  sinks,  and  sense  of  listening  ears 
Heeds  not  the  sound  it  heard  of  love's  blithe  psalter 
Years  upon  years. 

Only  the  sense  of  a  heart  that  hearkens  hears, 
Louder  than  draems  that  assail  and  doubts  that  palter, 
♦Sorrow  that  sleeps,  and  that  wakes  ere  sundown  peers. 

Wakes,  that  the  heart  may  behold,  and  yet  not  falter, 
Faces  of  children  as  stars  unknown  of,  spheres 
Seen  but  of  love,  that  endure  though  all  things  alter, 
Years  upon  years. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne* 


Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  you  may, 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  may  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

The  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Robert  Herrick. 


i6 


God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all: 
A  Woful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy-Chase  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Earl  Percy  took  his  way  : 
The  child  inay  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  earl  of  Northumberland 

A  Vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer  days  did  take— 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Cbavy-Chase 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tidings  to  Earl  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay; 

He  sent  Eail  Percy  present  word 

fffe  would  prevent  his  spot*. 
The  English  earl,  not  fearing  that. 

Did  to  the  woods  resort. 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold, 

All  Chosen  men  of  might  , 
Full  well  they  knew  in  time  of  need 

To  altt  their  shafts  aright. 

On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt 

As  day-light  did  appear : 
The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran 

Chasing  the  fallow  deer; 


C11EVY-CNASE  17 

And  long  Def5ro  high  noon  they  had 

A  hundrod  fat  bucks  slain  ; 
Then  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 

To  rouse  the  deer  again. 

The  hounds  ran  -wiftiy  through  the  woods, 

The  nimble  deer  to  take, 
That  with  their  eries  the  hills  and  dales 

An  eeho  shrill  did  make; 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 

To  view  the  slaughtered  deer  ; 
Quoth  h",'\Harl  Douglas  promised 

This  day  to  meet  me  here; 

But  If  1  thought  he  would  hot  come, 

No  1 0  n  ger  w  o  u  1  d  I  s  t  ay  ; ' ' 
With  that  a  brave'yoUug  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  earl  did  say  : 

"Lo.  'yonder  dujh  Earl  Douglas  come, 

His  men  in  armor  bright ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 

All  marching  in  our  sight; 

All  men  of  pleasant  Teviotdale,  . 

Fast  bV  the  river  Tweed  ;  "    .   '  , 
"Then  cease  your  spjrti, "Earl  Percy  said, 

And  take  your  bows  with  speed  ; 

And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 

Your  coura go  forth  ad  van ce .; 
For  never  was  there  champion  yet, 

In  8  otland  or  In  France, 

;  f 

That  ever  did  on  horseback  come, 

B  u  t  i  f  m  y  h  ap.it  w  ere , . . 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man,   • 

With  him  to  break  a  spear." 

3 


1 8  CIIEVY-CIIASE 

Earl  Douglas  on  his  milk-whit?  steed, 

Most  ike  a  baron  hold, 
Rode  foremost  of  his  e  nnpany, 

Whose  armor  shone  like  gold. 

"Show  me, "said  he, "whose  men  you  he" 

That  hunt  so  boldly  here, 
That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deer." 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make, 

Was  noble  Percy  he— 
Who  said,  "We  list  not  to  declare, 

Nor  show  whose  men  we  be : 

"Yet  will  we  spend  our  dearest  blood 
Thy  chiefest  harts  to  slay." 

Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say  : 

"Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be, 

One  of  us  two  shall  die  ; 
I  know  thee  well,  an  earl  thou  art — 

Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were, 

And  great  offense,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltless  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

Let  you  and  me  the  battle  try, 

And  set  our  men  aside  " 
"Accursed  be  he, "Earl  Percy  said, 

"By  whom  this  is  denied." 

Then  stepped  a  gallant  squire  forth, 
Witherington  was  his  name, 

Who  said,"I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry,  our  king,  for  shame, 


CHEVY-CHASE.  19 

"That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot. 

And  I  stood  looking  on. 
You  two  be  earb,"  said  Witherington, 

"And  I  a  squire  alone  ; 

"I'll  do  the  best  that  do  I  may, 

While  I  have  power  to  stand  ; 
While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 

I'll  fight  with  heart  and  hand." 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows — 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true  ; 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent, 
Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew, 

Yet  stays  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 

As  chieftain  stout  and  good  ; 
As  valiant  captain,  all  unmoved, 

The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

As  leader  ware  and  tried  ; 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bore  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 

They  dealt  full  many  a  wound  ; 
But  sill  our  valiant  Englishmen 

All  firmly  kept  their  ground. 

And  throwing  straight  their  bows  away, 
They  grasped  their  swords  so  bright; 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 
On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side- 
No  slackness  there  was  found  ; 

And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 


CM  /aSjC. 

At  last  tJb  jse  two  S';  >ut  carls  did  m^el  ; 

Like  captaina  of,great  might, 
Like  lions  wode,  they  laid  on  lode, 

And  made  a  cruel  fight. 

They  fought  until  they  both  did  sweat, 
With  s wo  ds  of  tempered  st--.'l. 

Until  the  blood,  Ijke  drops  of  rain, 
rrhey  trickling  down. did  feel. 

"Yield  thee.  Lord  Percy, "Doug  as  .said  ; 

"In  faith  T  will  thee  bi.iflg 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 

l>y  James,  our  Scottish  king. 

uThy  ransom  I  v.'ill  freely  give, 

And  this  report  of  thee, 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see."  .  :    •      , 

"No,  Douglas,  Vsaitti;Eail  Percy  then, 

''Thy  proffer  I  do  scorn  ; 
I  wiil  not  yield  to  any  Scot 

That  ever  yet  was  born." 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  how,  i 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow; 

Who  never  spoke  more  words  than  these 
"Fight  on,  ray  merry  men  all ; 

For  why,  ray  life  is  at  an  end  ; 
Lord  Percy  sees  ray  fall." 

Then  leaving  life/ Earl  Percy  took 

Thexlead  man  by  the  hand  ; 
And  said, "Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 

Would  I  had  lost  my  land. 


CHEVY-CHASE.  2i 

"In  truth  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake  ; 
For  sure  a  more  redoubted  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take." 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was 

Who  saw  Earl  Douglas  die, 
Who  straight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 

Upon  the  Earl  Percy. 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  called, 

Who,  with  a  spear  full  bright, 
Well  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed. 

Ran  fiercly  through  the  fight ; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 

Without  a  dread  of  fear  ; 
And  through  Earl  Percy's  body  then 

He  thrust  hl«  hateful  spear  ; 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  die, 

Whose  courage  none  could  stain. 
An  English  archer  then  perceived 

The  noble  earl  was  slain. 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery 

Then  right  his  shaft  he  set, 
Ami  the  gray  goose  wing  that  wa»  thereon 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun  : 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell, 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 

Both  knights  of  good  account, 
(rood  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slain, 

Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 


22  CHEVY-CHASE. 

For  Witherington  my  heart  is  wo 
That  ever  he  slain  should  be, 

For  when  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two, 
He  knelt  and  fought  on  his  knee. 

And  with  Earl  Douglas  there  was  slain 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  field 

One  foot  would  never  flee. 

Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Ratcliff,  too— 

His  sister's  son  was  he  ; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

But  saved  he  could  not  be. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Earl  Douglas  die  : 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty- three  ; 
The  rest  in  Chevy-Chase  were  slain, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewail ; 
They  washed  their  wounds  in  brinish  tears, 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  blood, 
They  bore  with  them  away  : 

They  kissed  the  dead  a  thousand  times, 
Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

uOh  heavy  news,"King  James  did  say  ; 

"Scotland  can  witness  be 
I  have  not  any  captain  more 

Of  such  account  as  he." 


CHE  VY-  CHA  SE.  2  3 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slain  in  Chevy-Chase:  « 

"Now  God  be  with  him, "said  our  king, 

"Since  'twill  no  better  be  . 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he : 

"Yet  shall  not  Scots  or  Scotland  say 

But  I  will  vengeance  take  : 
I'll  be  revenged  on  them  all, 

For  brave  Earl  Percy's  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 

After  at  Humbledon ; 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain, 

With  lords  of  high  renown  ; 

And  of  the  best  ,of  small  account, 

Did  many  hundreds  die  : 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chase, 

Made  by  Earl  Percy. 

God  save  the  king,  and  bless  this  land, 

With  plenty,  joy,  and  peace ; 
And  grant,  henceforth,  that  foul  debate 
'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease ! 

Anonymous. 


-•t 


•i-FL8WEI?SvWI¥pOTvKRai¥-> 

Prune  thou  thy  words ;  the  thoughts  coutrol 
That  o'er  thee  swell  and  throng  ;— 

They  will  condense  within  thy  soul, 
And  change  to  purpose  strong. 

But  he  who  lets  his  feelings  run 

In  soft  luxurious  flow, 
Shrinks  when  hard  service  must  be  done, 

And  faints  at  every  Woe. 

Faith's  meanest  deed  more  favour  bears, 
Where  hearts  and  wills  are  weighed, 

Than  brightest  transports,  choicest  prayers, 
Which  bloom  their  hour,  and  fade. 

Jons  IIenky  Newman. 


->*gf.TP0]^IC/I!^ 


11  Ah,  could  thy  grave  at  home,  at  Carthage,  be  !— 
Care  not  for  that,  and  lay  me  where  I  fa  1 ! 
Everywhere  heard  will  be  the  judgment  call ; 

But  at  God's  altar,  oh  !  remember  me." 

Thus  Monica,  and  died  in  Italy. 
Yet  fervent  had  her  longing  been,  through  all 
Her  course,  for  home  at  last,  and  burial 

With  her  own  husband,  by  the  Libyan  Sea. 

Had  been  !  but  at  the  end,  to  her  pure  soul 
All  tie  with  all  beside  seem'd  vain  and  cheap, 
And  union  before  God  the  only  care. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


-5 


<-CJHH*CJITO]H*.      ...   , 


The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day  ;  t.J 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea; 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world, to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Have  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tiuklings  lull  the  distant  folds;; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  comp  ain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath:those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep.        . 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straW-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  .ply  her  evening  care 

No  children  run. to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  toshare. 


26  ELEG  V  WRITTEN  IN 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ,' 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How  bowed  the  Woods  b-eujath  their  sturdy  stroke  S 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  aouals  of  thj  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour  ; 
The  piths  of  glory  l?al  l>Jb  t>  thj  gravj. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vau] 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  honours  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayedr 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre ; 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unrol ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Pull  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.  27 

Home  village  Hampden,  that,  wih  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 

♦Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruiu  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  to  mankind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenious  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool,  seque  tered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noisless  tenour  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unletterd  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  chreeful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 


2g  BIBGY 'WRITTEN LV 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies,. 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  Who,  mindful  of  the  unhonoured  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tales  relate  ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  enquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say  : — 
"Oft  have  I  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There  at  the  fjot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  high 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove  ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  iike  one  forlorn, 
Or  craved  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree; 

Another  came, — nor  yet  beside  the  rill; 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he  ; 

'The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne; 
Approach  aud  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  <  n  the  stone  beneath  you  aged  thorn  " 


A  CO  UNTR  Y  CH UR CHVARD.  29 

THE  EPITAPH* 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 
A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 

Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bouuty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send ; 
He  gave  to  misery,  (all  he  had),  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  heaven('t  was  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or  draw  his  frailites  from  their  dread  abode,— 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Guay> 


•fCjniiDpOM 


In  my  poor  mind  it  is  most  sweet  to  muse 

Upon  the  days  gone  by  ;  to  act  in  thought 

Past  seasons  o'er,  and  be  again  a  child  ; 

To  sit  in  fancy  on  the  turf-clad  slope, 

Down  which  the  child  would  roll ;  to  pluck  gay  flowers. 

Make  posies  in  the  sun,  Which  the  child's  hand 
(Childhood  offended  soon,  soon  reconciled), 
Would  throw  away,  and  straight  take  up  again, 
Then  fling  them  to  the  winds,  and  o'er  the  lawn 
Bound  with  so  playful  and  so  light  a  foot, 
That  the  pressed  daisy  scarce  declined  her  head. 

Charles  Lamb. 


3° 


A  simple  child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair ; — 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ?" 
'•How  many  ?    Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they  ?    I  pray  you  tell." 
She  answered,  "Seven  are  we ; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea  ; 

"Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother ; 
And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven !    I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be. " 


WE  ARE  SE  VEN.  3  \ 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree," 

"You  run  about,  my  little  maid; 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five," 

"Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen,0 

The  little  maid  replied  ; 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door. 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 

And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"And  often  after  sun-set,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"The  first  that  died  was  Sister  Jaue; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain  ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid  ; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  bv  her  side." 


52  WE  ARE  SE  VEN. 

"How  many  are  you,  then, "said  I, 
"If  they  are  two  in  heaven  ?" 

Quick  was  the  little  maid's  reply  ! 
"O  Master,  we  are  seven." 

"But  they  are  dead ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  ! 
'T  was  throwing  words  away  ;  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "Nay,  we  are  seven." 

William  Wordsworth. 


I  like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase  whi  h  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's-Acre !    It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 
And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  seeping  dust. 

God's-Acre!     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 

.Comfort  to  those  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts, 

Their  bread  of  life,  alas  !  no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 
In  the  sure  faith  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest/ when  the  archangel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  'fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 
With  that  of  flowers  which  never  bloomed  on  earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  the  sod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 
This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  grow ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


33 


•*¥flOT?ePSIJ5* 


To  him  who  in  the  'ove  of  nature  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 

And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.    When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  comes  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depth  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice  :  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  With  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth  t)  be  resolved  to  earth  agiiri  ; 

And,  lost  each  human  tra,ce,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements— 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 

5 


THANATOPSIS.  34 

Couch  more  magnificent.    Thou  shalt  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good — 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.    The  hills 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between — 

The  venerable  woods— rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green  ;and,  poured  round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.    The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 

Of  morning  :  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 

Save  his  own  dashings — yet,  the  dead  are  there  ; 

And  millions  iu  the  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep— the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.     rJ  he  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 

His  favourite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,   and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years— matron,  and  maid, 


35  THANATOPSIS. 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side 

By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

80  live,  that  when  thy  summons  eomes  to  join 

The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves 

To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall  take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 

Scourged  to  his  dungeon  ;  but,  sustained  and  soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 

Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 

About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

William  Cullen  Bkyaxt. 


**J38fl*NE¥fc 


The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers; 

Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares   her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 

The  Winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers  ; 
For  this,  fur  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune  : 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 

A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
Ho  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

William  Wokdswobth. 


36 


-MtVK^IIil£^-M^EGI3: 


+H£- 


The  royal  banners  forward  go, 
The  cr  ss  shines  forth  in  mystic  glow, 
Where  He  in  flesh,  our  flesh  who  made, 
Our  sentence  borer  our  ransom  paid  ; 

Where  deep  for  us  the  spear  was  dyedr 
Life's  torrent  rushing  from  His  side, 
To  wash  us  in  that  precious  flood 
Where  mingled  water  flowed  and  blood. 

Fulfilled  is  all  that  David  told 
lu  true  prophetic  song  of  old: 
Amidst  the  nations,  God,  saith  he, 
Hath  reigned  and  triumphed  from  a  tree. 

O  tree  of  beauty,  tree  of  light ! 
O  tree  with  royal  purple  dight ! 
Elect  on  whose  triumphal  breast 
Those  holy  limbs  should  fiud  their  rest  I 

On  whose  dear  arms,  so  widely  fluug, 
The  weight  of  the  world's  ransom  hung— 
The  price  of  human  kind  to  pay, 
And  spoil  the  spoiler  of  his  prey. 

To  Thee,  eternal  three  in  one, 
Let  homage  meet  by  all  be  done, 
Whom  by  the  cross  Thou  dost  restore, 
Preserve  and  govern  evermore.    Amen. 

VENANTIUS  FOIITUNATCB. 

Anonymous  Translation. 


37 


+F8M)I]SG*TflE*HIie<3Kj8;+ 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair, 

Fold  your  flocks  up  ;  for  the  air 

'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 

Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 

See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 

Every  little  flower  that  is  : 

Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 

Like  a  string  of  crystal  beads. 

See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling 

And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 

The  dead  night  from  under  ground  ; 

At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound, 

Damps  and  vapours,  fly  apace, 

And  hover  o'er  the  smiling  face 

Of  these  pastures  ;  where  they  come, 

Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 

Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 

Every  one  his  loved  flock  ; 

Aud  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  like  a  scout 

From  the  mountain,  and,  ere  day, 

Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away  ; 

Or  the  crafty,  thievish  fox, 

Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  rescue  yourself  from  these, 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease  ; 

So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  deserve  your  master's  love. 

Now,  good  night!  may  sweetest  slumbers 

And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 

On  your  eyelids.     So  farewell : 

Thus  I  end  my  evening  knell. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


*HEBE0C7nS>H¥|I]«- 


FBOM  'IVANHOF." 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  laud  of  bandage  came, 
Her  father's  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoued  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen  ; 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 
No  poteuts  now  our  foes  amaze — 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  ; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen, 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen, 

To  temper  the  dec  ji  tail  ray. 
And  O,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  th)U,  lor  g-s  uttering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams — 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn  ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 
But  thou  hast  said,  the  blood  of  goats, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize — 
A  contrite  heart,  and  humble  thoughts, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

Silt  WiL  TEll  SC  >TT. 


39 


-:>GITOK0PPE1^7ipvCI^ICKE'F<- 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  field  of  June — 

Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass  ; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 

Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ! 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong  , 

One  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 

Both  have  your  sunshine :  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts  ;  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 

To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirth. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


>GOT3pePPEI^7ip  *CHICKEF* 

Thk  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead. 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury,— he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights  ;  for,  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never. 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

And  seems,  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

John  Keats. 


40 


-M:TOT¥pTSKYL'/IRK:f^- 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  tire  ; 
The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  setting  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  embodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale,  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Iiike  a  star  of  heaven, 
In  the  broad  daylight, 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the. arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 


TO  THE  SKYLARK.  41 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow-clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Hinging  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not; 

Like  a  high-born  maiden, 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bowrer  ; 

Like  a  glow-worm  go'den, 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the 
view; 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  fresh,  and  clear,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 


4*  TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  ; 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine, 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphant  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt— 
A  thing  whereiu  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  tields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joy  and 

Langour  cannot  be  ; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  ; 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream  ; 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 
With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  though  t. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear  ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound  ; 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  fjund, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground. 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

I'eecy  Bvsshe  Shelley. 


43 


^Mg¥->DHYg> 


The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to  day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 

Lie  as  they  fell?    Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat- 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay? 

Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet? 

Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  throats  of  men  in  hell,  who  thirst  alway? 

I  do  not  see  them  here :  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
I  am  thyself, — what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ? 

And  I— and  I— thyself :  (lo!  each  one  saith,) 
And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity ! 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


44 


MoTHEB  of  the  Fair  Delight, 
Thou  handmaid  perfect  in  God's  sight, 
Now  sitting  fourth  beside  the  Three, 
Thyself  a  Women-Trinity,— 
Being  a  daughter  born  to  God, 
Mother  of  Christ  from  stall  to  rood, 
And  spouse  unto  the  Holy  Ghost  :— 
Oh  wheu  our  need  is  uttermost, 
Think  that  to  such  as  death  may  strike 
Thou  once  wert  sister  sisterlike  ! 
Thou  headstone  of  humanity, 
Gromdstone  of  the  great  Mystery, 
Fashioned  like  us,  yet  more  than  we  ! 

Mind'st  thou  not  (when  June's  heavy  breath 

Warmed  the  long  days  in  Nazareth,) 

That  eve  thou  didst  go  forth  to  give 

Thy  flowers  some  drink  that  they  might  live 

One  faint  night  more  amid  the  sands? 

Far  off  the  trees  were  as  pale  wands 

Aga;nst  the  fervid  sky  :  the  sea 

Sighed  further  off  eternally 

As  human  sorrow  sighs  in  sleep. 

Then  suddenly  the  awe  grew  deep, 

As  of  a  day  to  which  all  days 

Were  footsteps  in  God's  secret  ways  : 

Until  a  folding  sense,  like  prayer, 

Which  is,  as  God  is,  everywhere, 

Gathered  about  thee ;  and  a  voice 

8poke  to  thee  without  any  noise, 

Being  of  the  silence  :—  "Hail,"  it  said, 

"Thou  that  art  highly  favored  ; 

The  Lord  is  with  thee  here  and  now  ; 

Blessed  among  all  women  thou." 


AVE.  45 

Ah  !  knew'st  thou  of  the  end,  when  first 

That  Babe  was  on  thy  bosom  nursed?— 

Or  when  He  tottered  round  thy  thy  knee 

Did  thy  great  sorrow  dawn  on  thee  ?— - 

And  through  His  boyhood,  year  by  year 

Eating  with  Him  the  passover 

Didst  thou  discern  confusedly 

That  holier  sacrament,  when  He, 

The  bitter  cup  about  to  quaff, 

Hhould  break  the  bread  and  eat  thereof?- 

Or  came  not  yet  the  knowledge,  even 

Till  on  some  day  forecast  in  heaven 

His  feet  passed  through  thy  door  to  press 

Upou  His  Father's  business? 

Or  still  was  God's  high  secret  kept? 

Nay,  but  I  think  the  whisper  crept 

Like  growth  through  childhood.     Work  and  play, 

Things  common  to  the  course  of  day, 

Awed  thee  with  meanings  unfulfill'd; 

And  all  through  girlhood,  something  stilPd 

Thy  senses,  like  the  birth  of  light, 

When  thou  hast  trimmed  thy  lamp  at  night 

Or  washed  thy  garments  in  the  stream ; 

To  whose  white  bed  had  come  the  dream 

That  He  was  thine  and  thou  wast  His 

Who  feeds  among  the  field-lilies. 

O  solemn  shadow  of  the  end 

In  that  wise  spirit  long  contained! 

O  awful  end !  and  those  unsaid 

Long  years  when  It  was  Finished  ! 

Miud'st  thou  not,  (when  the  twilight  gone 

Left  darkness  in  the  house  of  John,) 

Between  the  naked  window-bars 

That  spacious  vigil  of  the  stais  ! — 

For  thou,  a  watcher  even  as  they, 

Wouldst  rise  from  where  throughout  the  day 


46  AVE. 

Thou  wroughtest  raiment  for  His  poor; 

And,  finding  the  fixed  terms  endure 

Of  day  and  night  which  n.*ver  brought 

Sounds  of  His  coming  chariot, 

Wouldst  lift  through  cloud-waste  uuexplorM 

Those  eyes  that  said,  "How  long,  O  Lord?*' 

Then  that  diciple  whom  He  loved 

Well  heeding,  haply  would  be  moved 

To  ask  thy  blessing  in  His  name; 

And  that  one  thought  in  both,  the  same 

Though  silent,  then  would  clasp  ye  round 

To  weep  together, — tears  long  bound, 

Sick  tears  of  patience,  dumb  and  slow. 

Yet,  "Surely  I  come  quickly, '"— so 

He  said,  from  life  and  death  gone  home. 

Amen  :  even  so,  Lord  Jesus,  come ! 

But  oh  !  what  human  tongue  can  speak 
That  day  when  death  was  sent  to  break 
From  the  tir'd  spirit,  like  a  veil, 
Its  covenant  with  Gabriel 
Endured  at  length  unto  the  end? 
What  human  thought  can  apprehend 
That  mystery  of  motherhood 
When  thy  Beloved  at  length  renewed 
The  sweet  communion  severed, — 
His  left  hand  underneath  thy  head 
And  His  right  hand  embracing  thee? — 
Lo !  He  was  thine,  and  this  is  He  ! 

Soul,  is  it  Faith,  or  Love,  or  Hope, 
That  lets  me  see  her  standing 
Where  the  light  of  the  Throne  is  bright? 
Unta  the  left,  unto  the  right, 
The  cherubim,  arrayed,  conjoint, 
Float  inward  to  a  golden  point, 
And  from  between  the  seraphim 
The  glory  issues  for  a  hymn. 


A  VE.  47 

O  Mary  Mother,  be  not  loth 
To  listen,— thou  whom  the  stars  clothe, 
Who  seest  and  raayst  not  be  seen  ? 
Hear  us  at  last,  O  Mary  Queen? 
Into  our  shadow  bend  thy  face, 
Bowing  thee  from  thy  secret  place, 
O  Mary  Virgin,  full  of  grace? 

Dante  Gabriel  BOMSTA. 


Wake  again,  Teutonic  father-ages, 
Speak  again,  beloved  primeval  creeds; 

Flash  ancestral  spirit  from  \our  pages, 
Wake  the  greenly  age  to  noble  deeds. 

Tell  u3  how,  of  old,  our  saintly  mothers 
Schooled  themselves  by  vigil,  fast,  and  prayer; 

Learned  to  love  as  Jesus  loved  before  them, 
While  they  bore  the  cross  which  poor  men  beai\ 

Tell  us  how  our  stout  crusading  fathers 
Fought  and  died  for  God,  and  not  for  gold  : 

Let  their  love,  their  faith,  their  boyish  daring, 
Distance-mellowed,  gild  the  days  of  old. 

Tell  us  how  the  ceaseless  workers,  thronging, 
Angel-tended,  round  the  convent-doors, 

Wrought  to  Christian  Faith  and  holy  order 
Savage  hearts  alike  and  barren  moors 

Ye  who  built  the  churches  where  we  worship, 
Ye  who  framed  the  laws  by  which  we  move 

Fathers,  long  belied  and  long  forsaken, 
Oh,  forgive  the  children  of  your  love! 

Charles  KingsleV. 


48 


As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried. 

When  fell  the  night,  up  sprang  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 

Nor  dreamed  but  each  the  selfsame  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so, — but  why  the  ta'e  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  ;— 

Ah  !  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed 
Or  wist  what  first  with  dawn  appeared. 

To  veer,  how  vain  !      On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks  !     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides 
To  that  and  your  own  pelves  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze !  and  O  great  seas! 

Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 
On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again,— 

Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought,— 
One  purpose  bold  where'er  they  fare; 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas, 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there! 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


49 


The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold  ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  waves  roll  nightly  on  deap  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  onca  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  st^d  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breatj-i  of  his  pride: 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifoed,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  ara  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsniote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord ! 

QpORGJt  OOBDON  BfROS. 


s° 


Here  in  this  leafy  place, 

Quiet,  he  lies, 
Cold:,  with  his  sightless  face 

Turned  to  the  skies  ; 
'T  is  but  another  dead  ;— 
All  3Tou  can  say  is  said. 

Carry  his  body  hence, — 
Kings  must  have  slaves; 

Kings  climb  toerainence 
Over  men's  graves. 

So  this  man's  eye  is  dim  ;  — 

Throw  the  earth  over  him 

What  was  the  white  you  touched, 

There  at  his  side? 
Paper  his  hand  had  clutched 

Tight  ere  he  died  ; 
Message  or  wish,  may  be: — 
Smooth  out  the  folds  and  see. 

Hardly  the  worst  of  us 
Here  could  have  smiled  ?  — 

Only  the  tremulous 
Words  of  a  child  :  — 

Prattle,  that  had  for  stops 

Just  a  few  ruddy  drops. 

Look.    She  is  sad  to  miss, 

Morning  and  night, 
His — her  dead  father's  —kiss, 

Tries  to  be  bright, 
Good  to  mamma,  and  sweet. 
That  is  all.     "Marguerite. " 


BEFORE  SEDAN.  51 

Ah,  if  beside  the  dead 

Slumbered  the  pain? 
Ah,  if  the  hearts  that  bled 

Slept  with  the  slain  ! 
If  the  grief  died  !— But  no  :— 
Death  will  not  have  it  so. 

Austin  Dobson, 


My  boat  is  on  the  snore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
15  ut  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate  ; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate  ! 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hat'i  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'T  is  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be, — Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore ! 

Geokge  Gordon  ByhoN. 


The  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still, 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill : 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  fjr  the  wind  was  still. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was,— 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass, 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon ; 

Amoug  those  few,  out  of  the  sun, 

The  woodspurge  flowered,  three  cups  in  one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  hot  he 
Wisdom  or  even  memory  : 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me,— 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  tnree. 

Dante  Gabbiel  Rossetti 


-*M6J»f> 


The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

The  day  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  its  love  is  done. 

Francis  W.  Bourdildn. 


53 


<-M3rDESEI^ED+VII[Ii?iGE'> 

BWKET  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  tbe  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  b  ooms  delayed. 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth    when  every  sport  could  please' 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene! 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never  failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  toppad  the  neighouriug  hill, 

The  hawthorn-bush,  with  seats  L)3neath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 

How  often  have  I  blessed  (he  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  f  om  labour  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  ol  1  surveyed  ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 

And  s  eights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round  ; 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place  ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  look-  reprove,— 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please; 


5 4  THE  DESRR TED  VILLAGE. 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 
These  were  thy  charms, — but  all  these  charms  are  fled  • 

Sweet  smiliug  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  Hid,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  : 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyraut's  hand  is  s^en, 
And  deso  ation  saddens  all  thy  green  ; 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a 'tillage  stints  th3T  smiling  plain; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  the  sedges,  works  its  weary  way; 
Along  thy  gladts,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow  s.mnding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walk's  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Bunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall, 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  laud. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  grief  began, 
\Vhen  every  rood  of  ground,  maintained  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  Labour  spread  her  wholesomi  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swaiu  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  luxurv  allied, 


t;iE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


55 


And  every  pang  that  f A\y  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  spjrts  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green, — 
These  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  nanners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour,    ' 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power.         ' 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  mauy  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew', 
Rememberance  wakes,  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wandering?  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share— 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose: 
I  still  had  hopes — for  pride  attends  us  still — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw  ; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
[  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexation  past, 
Here  to  return, — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement!  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  't  is  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 


56  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

l^or  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate, 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  later  end, 
Angels  around  btfriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close. 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  fr  jih  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voic.  i  that  bayed  the  whisp3riug  wind, 
And  t':e  loud  laugh  that  sp;;kj  the  vacant  mind, — 
These  all  in  sweet  c;>n fusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made, 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail; 
No  cheerful  mur  i.urs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
But  a  I  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thiug, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring; 
She  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  crtsses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  ; 
She  only  left  of  al!  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild  , 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  57 

There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  plane  disclose, 

The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place ; 

Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast. 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sate  by  his  Are,  and  talked  the  night  away ; 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  field?  were  won. 

Pleased  with  hisguests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all! 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid' 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dimayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  aud  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 

7 


58  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Comfort  came  d.jwn  the  trembling  wrttch  to  raise, 
A  id  Liis  \\b.<  filt  Tin  *  a  a  jlks  wh'.sp   \.d  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  this  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed  ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofltably  gay, 
There  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned  ; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  times  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  59 

I11  arguing  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 

For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still, 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot.  — 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  th  it  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  we;  t  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place,  — 
The  whitewashed  wall;  the  nicely  sanded  floor; 
The  varnished  clock  that  ticked  behind  the  door; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  bv  day  ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use ; 
The  twelve  good  rules  ;  the  royal  game  of  goose  ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay  ; 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendour!  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  silks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
Au  hour's  importance  to  tne  poor  man's  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 


THE  DESERTED  ULLAGE, 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  fjund 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prcst, 
Shall  kiss  thy  cup  to  pays  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  th.3  gloss-  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play. 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway ; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
TJnenvied,  unmolested,  uncouflned  : 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  fr?aks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed,  — 
In  these,  ere  tri  tiers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  iut  >  pain  ; 
And  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  l  >  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increas  »,  the  poor's  decay, 
'T  is  yours  to  judge,  how  wiie  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  World  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  grounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds: 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 


THE  DESER  TED  VILLA  QE.  6 1 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies: 
While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  sp'endour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  f  jmale  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  pk  ase  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes, 
But  when  those  charms  are  past, — for  charms  are  frail,— 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  ; 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed, 
In  nature's  simplest  chara;s  at  first  arrayed, 
But  verging  t>  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 
While  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms,  —a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah  !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 
If  to  the  city  sped,  —what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  thick  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 


6  2  THE  DESER  TED  VILLA  GE. 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  the  midnight  reign, 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  tho  blazing  square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy  ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts?  — Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 

She  once,  perhaps,  iu  village  plenty  blest, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  ; 

Now  lost  to  all:  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  the  luckless  hour, 

When,  idly  first  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ! 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread ! 

Ah,  no!    To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracks  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  .before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore,— 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling  : 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  63 

Where  Crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  ties, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven  !  what  sorrow's  gloomed  that  parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  t  ok  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And  shuddering  still  tofacc4  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  other's  woe; 
But  for  himself  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  only  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  weiiu  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose; 
And  kiirsed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  man  iness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury!  thou  curst  by  heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own. 


64  THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  rua9S  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe; 
Till,  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound. 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  beguu, 
And  half  the  bu  iuess  of  destruction  done; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sal- 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  ail  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first  and  keep'st  me  so ; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell ;  and  O,  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain  ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  65 

That  trades  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  laboured  mole  away  ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

t    LIVKK  GdlDSMITH. 


Hence,  loathed  melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Miduight  bom, 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 
'Mongst  horrid  shapes,   and   shrieks,   and   sights 
unholy! 

Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 
Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings 
And  the  night  raven  sings  ; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-browed  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  ycleped  Euphrosyne, 
And,  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth  ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  ; 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity,  — 
Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek,  — 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter,  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come  !  and  trip  it,  as  you  go, 

9 


66  V  ALLEGRO. 

On  tho  ight  fantastic  toe; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  t  ee 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty  ; 

And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unproved  pleasures  free,  — 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 

And  singing  startle  the  dull  Night, 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 

Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 

And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 

Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine; 

While  the  cock  with  lively  din 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 

And  to  the  stack,  or  baren  door, 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before, 

Oft  lisning  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  more, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill ; 

Sometimes  walking,  not  unseen, 

B/  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 

Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 

Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 

While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 

Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures 


L  ALLEGRO.  67 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallow  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray,  — 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest,  — 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks  ahd  rivers  wide. 
Towers  of  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  on  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 
Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Cordon  and  Thyrsis,  met, 
Are  of  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses: 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestyl's  to  bind  the  sheaves; 
Or  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 
Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite' 
When  the  merry  bell  ring  round, 
At  the  jocund  rebeks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday, 
Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail ; 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat : 
How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat,  — 
She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said, 
And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led; 
Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 


68  L  ALLEGRO. 

His  shadowy  Hail  had  thrashed  the  eorn 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end  ; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 
And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  lengtn. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 
And,  crop-full,  out  of  doors  he  flings 
Ere  the  first  cock  in  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knight-  and  barons  bold 

In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold,  — 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,  aud  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 

And  pomp  and  feast  aud  revelry, 

With  masque,  and  antique  pageantry,  — 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poet<  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream  ; 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 

Or  sweet  st  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydiau  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse,  — 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 

In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed  and  gidd\r  cunning 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 


V  ALLEGRO.  69 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hiddeu  soul  of  harmony,  — 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Sneh  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

Milton. 


>*JS0NP¥W£- 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste 
Then  can  I  draw  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  wreep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancelled  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanished  sight. 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay,  as  if  not  paid  before; 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

SHAKESPE  .RE. 


7° 


When  the  lamp  is  shattered 

The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead ; 

When  the  eloud  is  scattered, 

The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 

Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not ; 

When  the  lips  have  spokeu, 

Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendour 

Survive  not  the  lamp  aud  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 

No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute,  — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 

Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 

Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest ; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 

To  endure  what  it  once  possessed. 

O  Love  who  bewailest 

The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  ; 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee 

Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 

Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 

When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


7> 


Hence,  vain  deluding  joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred! 

How  little  you  bestead, 
Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 

Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 
And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fiekle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and  holy ! 
Hail,  divinest  melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore,  to  our  weaker  view, 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue,  — 
Black  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  prize  above 
The  Sea-Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  ; 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore,  — 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 


IL  PENSEROSO. 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  9toleof  cyprus-lawn 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wouted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes; 

There  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad,  leaden,  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast ; 

And  join  with  the  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing ; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure: 

But  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne,  — 

The  cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak. 

Sweet  bird,  that  shun'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 

Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song. 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry,  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon 

Riding  near  the  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 


1L  PENSEROSO.  73 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  cf  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound 

Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 

♦Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 

Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Home  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  — 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm  ; 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 

Where  I  may  oft  out- watch  the  Bear 

With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshy  nook ; 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometimes  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 

Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 

Or  the  tales  of  Troy  divine, 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musseus  from  his  bower  ! 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
10 


74  IL  PENSEROSO. 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string-, 

Drew  iron  tears  from  Pluto's  cheek, 

And  made  hell  grant  what  love  did  seek  I 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  — 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife,  — 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 

That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass,  — 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride ! 

And,  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung,  — 

Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  my  pale  career, 

Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear,  — 

Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  w»«  wont 

With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 

But  kerchiefed  in  a  comely  cloud, 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  nis  till, 

Ending  in  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring, 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  Nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 


IL  PENSEROSO.  75 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

JEutice  the  dewy  -feathered  Sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed. 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid: 

And,  as  I  wake,  aweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  Spirit  for  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due* feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale, 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 

With  antic  pillars  massy  proof, 

And  storied  windows,  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full- voiced  quire  below, 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  iike  prophetic  strain. 
These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

Milton. 


76 


*:• 


Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 

Yon  solitary  Highland  lass  I 
Reaping  and  singing  b<-  herself; 

Stop  here  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melanc'  oly  s'rain  ; 
Oh  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands* 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands; 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring  time  from  the  cuckoo  bird, 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago ; 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  or  may  be  again  ? 

Whate'er  the  theme  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 

1  saw  her  singing  at  her  work 
And  o'er  her  sickle  bending ;  — 

I  listened  motionless  and  still ; 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

William  Wordsworth. 


77 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ! 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thateh-eves  run 
To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage  trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core  — 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel  —  to  set  budding  more 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sonnd  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  dead  across  a  brook  ; 

Or  by  a  cider  press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  sougs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them— thou  hast  thy  music  too : 
Where  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue: 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  shallows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking,  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  redreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

John  Kiats. 


7« 


When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  truces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 

Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 
With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 

And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 

Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 

For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees  and  cling? 

Oh  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring  to  her, 
Fire  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 

As  raiment,  as  song  of  the  harp-player; 

For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 

And  the  south-west  wind  and  the  west  wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins ; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins  ; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 

Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 


CHOR  US  FROM  «A  TALANTA"  79 

The  fall  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 

Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot, 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  from  flower  to  fruit; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 

The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnnt-root. 

AXt'iKBKOX  Charlks  Swinburne, 


Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  when  we  met, 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 
But  this  I  know:  when  thou  art  fled, 
Where'er  they  lay  these  limbs,  this  head, 
No  clod  so  yaluless  shall  be 
As  all  that  then  remaine  of  me. 

Life!  we've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  ara  dear  ; 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 
Choose  thine  own  time  ; 
8ay  not  Good-night,  — but  in  some  brighter  clime 
Bid  me  Good-morning. 

Anna  Lktitia  Barbauld. 


8o 


Farewell  !  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour 
That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  yotr  bower, 
Then  think  of  your  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too, 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you. 
His  griefs  may  return,  not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brightened  his  pathway  of  pain, 
But  he  ne'er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him  while  lingering  with  you  ; 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top-sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 
Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 
My  soul  happy  friends  !  shab  be  with  you  that  night- 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles, 
And  return  to  me  beaming  all  o'er  with  your  smiles  ; 
Too  blest  if  it  tells  me  that,  'mid  the  gay  cheer, 
Some  kind  voice  bad  murmured,  "I  wish  he  were  here!  " 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  theTe  are  relies  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy  ! 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  os  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  filled  ! 
Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distilled  ; 
You  may  break,  you  may  ruin  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 

Thomas  Moore. 


8i 


He  who  died  at  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  his  friends; 

Faithful  friends!     It  lies,  I  know, 
Pale  and  white  and  cold  as  snow : 
And  ye  say,  "  Abdullah's  dead  ! »» 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  head 
I  can  see  your  falling  tears, 
I  can  hear  your  sighs  and  prayers ; 
Yet  I  smile  and  whisper  this : 
I  am  not  the  thing  you  kisg. 
Cease  your  tears  and,  and  let  it  lie; 
It  was  mine— it  was  not  I. 

Sweet  friends !  what  the  women  lave 

For  i's  last  bed  of  the  grave, 

Is  a  hut  which  lam  quitting, 

Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 

Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last, 

Like  a  hawk  my  soul  hath  pas-ed; 

Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room, 

The  wearer,  not, the  garb;  the  plume 

Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bars 

That  kept  him  from  the  splendid  stars 

Loving  friends  !  be  wise,  auddry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye.      , 
What  ye  lift  uppn  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear. 
'Tis  an  empty  sea-shell,  one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  has  gone. 
The  shell  is  broken,  it  lies  there; 
The  pearl, >the  all,  the  soul,  is  hor-e. 
n 


8  2  HE  II  NO  DIED  A  T  AZAN. 

"Titan  enrthern  jar  whose  lid 
Allah  sealed,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 
A  mind  that  loved  him  :  let  it  lie! 
Let  the  shard  he  earth's  once  more, 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  the  store! 

Allah  glorious!  Allah  good! 
Now  Thy  world  is  understood ; 
Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends ! 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 
While  the  man  whom  ye  call  dead, 
In  uuspoken  hliss  instead, 
Lives  and  loves  you  ;  lost,  'ti<  true, 
By  such  light  as  shines  for  you  ; 
But,  in  the  light  you  cannot  see, 
Of  unfulfilled  felicity, 
In  enlarging  paradise 
Lives  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends !  yet  not  farewell — 

Where  I  am  ye  too  shall  dwell. 

I  am  gone  before  your  face. 

A  moment'?  time,  a  little  space. 

When  you  come  where  I  have  stept, 

Ye  will  wTonder  why  ye  wept; 

Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught, 

That  here  is  all  and  there  is  naught. 

Weep  a  while,  if  ye  are  fain, 

Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain, 

Only  not  at  death  ;  for  death, 

Now  I  knowT,  is  that  first  breath 

Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 

Life  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 

Be  ye  certain,  all  seems  love, 
Viewed  from  Allah's  throne  above! 
Be  ye  stout  of  heart  and  come 


TIE  WHO  DIED  A  T  AZAN.  fc 

Bravely  onward  to  your  home! 

La  Allah  ilia  Allah  !  yea  I 

Thou  love  diviue!  Thou  love  alway ! 

He  that  died  at  Azaii  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave. 

Edwin  A.unoi.d. 


Thou  still  unfaded  bride  of  quietness! 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  aud  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  ! 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  the  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  A  ready? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these?  what  maidens  loath  ? 
What  mad  pursuit?     What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?    What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes  play  on — 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  ! 
Fair  youth  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal ;  yet  do  not  grieve— 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss; 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  sne  be  fair ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  spring  adieu  : 

And  happy  melodist,  unwearied" 
For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 


84  ODE  TO  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love  I 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young", 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  Hanks  with  garlands  direst? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  With  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape!    Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ! 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought . 
As  doth  eternity.    Cold  pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  w.iste, 
Tho-ii  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  oUrs,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st 
•'Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"— that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  al\  ye  need  to  know. 

JbflX  Kkai> 


^EBTIBY-I 


4> 


On  parents'  knees,  a  naked,  new-born  child, 
Weeping  thou  sat'st  when  all  around  thee  smiled  : 
So  live,  that,  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep, 
Thou  then  mayst  smile  while  all  around  thee  wci  \< 

From  th«  Sanscrit  of  Oalii>aha?  bj 
Sib  Witliam  Joneh. 


*5 


•'Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch's  destinie! 
M'Pherson's  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows-tree." 
Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantingly, 

Sae  daunting ty  gaed  he  ; 
He  play'd  a  spring,  and  dantfd,  it  round, 
Below  the  gallows-tree. 

"O,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ? 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 
I've  dar'd  his  face  and  in  this  place 

I  scorn  him  yet  again! 

"Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword ; 
And  there  'd  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland, 

But  I'll  brave  him  at  a  word. 

u  I've  liv'd  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife; 

I  die  by  treacheric : 
It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart, 

And  not  avenged  be. 

"Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky  ! 
May  coward  shame  disdain  his  name, 
The  wretch  that  dares  not  die !  " 
Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

S ie  daunting  ly  gaed  he  ; 
He  play ]d  a  sjjring,  and  dancd  it  round, 
Below  the  gwllowS'trec. 

Robert  Burns. 


86 


Oh,  sing  unto  my  roundelay  ! 

Oh,  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me  ! 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday ; 
Like  a  running  river  be. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  neck  as  the  summer  snow' 

Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light; 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle's  note ; 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  can  be : 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 

Oh,  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree ! 

Hark!  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 

In  the  briered  dell  below  ; 
Hark !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 

To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 

See!  the  white  moon  shines  on  high ; 

Whiter  is  my  true  loves  shroud, 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 

Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 

Here  upon  my  true-love's  grave 
Shall  the  barren  flowers  be  laid, 

Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  coldness  of  a  maid. 


MINSTREL! S  SONG.  87 

With  my  hands  Til  bind  the  briers 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre  ; 
Ouphant  fairy,  light  your  fires  ; 

Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 

<Jome,  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn, 

Drain  my  hearths  blood  all  away; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night,  and  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
A II  under  the  willow-tree. 

Thomas  Chattertos. 


*3>F7iP7I3vTO:7mGag'I7I*- 


Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted) 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee* 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  that  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine: 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean. 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 


88  STANZAS  TO  A  UG  USTA. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shivered, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  delivered 

To  pain— it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me: 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think,  not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  £hou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thou  foreborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slandered,  thou  never  couldst  shake, 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor  mute  that  the  world  might  bel"e. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one  ; 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'Twas  folly  not  sooner  to  shun  ; 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  forsee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past  which  hath  perished 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  cherise^l 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all. 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wild  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 

Giobge  Gordon  Bxnyw. 


89 


Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west : 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best: 
And  save  his  good  broad-sword  he  weapon  had  none; 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
80  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone  ; 

He  swam  the  Esk  river  where  ford  there  was  none  ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late: 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

80  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  hall, 

'Mong  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  ail ; 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 

"O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" 

"I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied; 
Love  swells  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  ; 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine  ; 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet,  the  knight  took  it  up ; 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure  !  "  said  young  Lochinvar. 
12 


9o  LOCHINVAR 


So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace  ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret  and  her  father  did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his   bonnet  and 

plume; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'Twere  better  by 

far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochin- 
var.  " 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  to  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall  door  and  the  charger  stood 

near ; 
80  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 
"She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,  "  quoth    young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  GraBmes  of  the  Netherby 

clan ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 

ran : 
There  was  racing,  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


,Tis  sweet,  as  year  by  year  we  lose 
Friends  out  of  sight,  in  faith  to  muse 
How  grows  in  Paradise  our  store. 

Burial  of  the  Dead.  John  Keble. 


91 


-^*IgIiE3-f0F*6REECE:!^- 

FROM    ''BCS  JUAN,"   CAKTO  III. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung,  — 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace,  — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet; 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian,  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  farther  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  I-lands  of  rhe  Blest.  " 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 
I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  tSalamis; 

And  ships  by  thous  <nds  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations,  — all  were  his ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day,  — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they ! 

And  where  are  they !  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now,  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 


92  ISLES  OF  GREECE. 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divi:ier 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  death  of  famer 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  racef 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  blush,  —for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?  —our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred,  grant  but  three 
To  make  a  new  Therm opylce  ! 

What,  silent  still !  and  silent  all? 

Ah,  no!  the  voices  of  the  dead? 
Hound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one,  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come !  'r 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain,  — In  vain  ;  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  I 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Seio's  vine  ! 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal? 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet,  — 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave,  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ; 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 
We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these  I 


ISLES  OF  GREECE.  93 

It  made  Anacreon's  song-  divine  : 

He  served,  but  served  Polycrates  — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  th3  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 

O  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there  perhaps  some  seed  is  eown 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks,  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells: 

In  native  words,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad* 

Place  me  on  Suuium's  marble  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep: 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine,  — 

Dash  down. yon  cup  of  Samian  wine! 

Geobge  Gobuon  Bynoy. 


94 


Ave  Maria  !  Maiden  mild  ! 

Listen  to  a  maiden's  prayer : 
Thou  canst  hear  though  from  the  wild, 

Thou  canst  save  amid  despair. 
Safe  may  we  sleep  beneath  thy  care, 

Though  banished,  outcast,  and  reviled — 
Maiden  !  hear  a  maiden's  prayer ; 

Mother,  hear  a  suppliant  child!  — 
Ave  Maria  ! 

Ave  Maria!  undented ! 

The  flinty  couch  we  now  must  share 
Shall  seem  with  down  of  eider  piled 

If  thy  protection  hover  there. 
The  musky  cavern's  heavy  air 
Shall  breathe  a  balm  if  thou  hast  smiled  ; 
Then,  Maiden  !  hear  a  maiden's  prayer ! 

Mother,  list  a  suppliant  child! — 
Ave  Maria! 

Ave  Maria !  stainless  styled  ! 

Foul  demons  of  the  earth  and  air, 
From  their  wonted  haunt  exiled, 

Shall  flee  before  thy  presence  fair. 
We  bow  us  to  our  lot  of  care, 

Beneath  thy  guidance  reconciled; 
Hear  for  a  maid  a  maiden's  prayer! 

And  for  a  father  hear  a  child ! 
Ave  Maria ! 

Sib  Waltek  Scott. 


95 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  Winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shuu 

And  loves  to  live  i'  the  »un, 

Saeking  the  food  he  eats, 

And  pleased  With  what  he  gets 
Cone  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 

Here  shall  he  S3e 

No  enemy 
But  Wintsr  and  rough  weather. 

SiIakespeakK. 


*EflPEK** 


I  got  me  flowers  to  strew  they  way— 
I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree  ; 

But  thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 

And  brought'st  thy  sweets  along  with  thee. 

The  sun  arising  in  the  east, 

Though  he  give  light  and  th*  east  psrfume, 
If  they  should  off-r  to  contest, 

With  Thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  he  any  day  but  this, 

Though  many  suns  to  shine  endeavour? 

We  count  three  hundred,  but  we  miss  — 
There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 

Georgk  Herbert. 


•flJtfeNGTTJffirBETM'FIflaiivPICTUI^ 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  memory's  wal', 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all. 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  misletoe ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  ledge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge  ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland, 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest; 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep ; 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  green  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep; 
Light  as  the  dew  on  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago  ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And  one  of  the  autumn  eves 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 
My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 

As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 
Silently  covered  his  face ; 


A  MONG  7  HE  BE  A  UTIEUL  PICTURES.       97 

And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  a  saint  like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  memory's  wall, 
Ths  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 
S^m.^th  thi  b.'stof  all. 


Alice  Car* 


When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me  ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress-tree : 
Let  the  green  grass  be  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain  ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain  ; 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 

CHi'.rsriXA  (t.  Ko.s*ktt: 


IO4 


9S 


0  that  those  lips  had  language!     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  them  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine,  —thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  Childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
11  Grieve  not,  my  child ;  chase  all  thy  feara  away  !  " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalise,  — 
Th.3  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it!)  here  shines  on  me  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear! 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 
Who  bid'st  me  honour  with  an  artless  song' 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long- 

1  will  obey,  — not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  h*  ial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief,  — 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 

Could  time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours 
When,  playing  with  my  vesture's  tissued  flowers,  — 
The  violet,  the  pink  and  jessamine,  — 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while — 
Wou  dst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smiles- 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  bring  them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart,  —the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might 
But  no,  —what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 


Ml r  MO  TREE'S  PICTURE.  99 

Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou — as  a  gallaut  bark,  from  Albion's  coast, 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed,) 
Shoots  Into  p  >rfc  at  soma  well-havened  isle, 
Wbera  spiu-s  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile;  ■ 
There  sits  quieseeut.on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay,  — 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swif^!  hast  reached  the  shore 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar," 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed,  — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost; 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  O,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he !  — 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce   my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 
But  higher  for  my  proud  pretentions  rise,  — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell ! —Time,  unrevoked,  has  run 
His  wonted  course;  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contempla  ion's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again,  — 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft,— 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  t  >  soothe  me  left. 

William  Cowpki: 


100 


fK)M  '•  th%  cucko)  an\  tlie  nightingale.  " 

The  God  of  love,— a/*,  bencdlcltc  ! 

How  mighty  and  how  great  a  lord  is  he  ! 

For  he  of  low  hearts  can  n.ake  high  ;  of  high 

He  can  make  low,  aud  unto  death  bring  nigh ; 

And  hard  hearts,  he  can  make  them  kind  and  tr  se. 

In  brief,  the  whole  of  what  he  will  he  may  ; 
Against  him  dare  not  any  wight  say  nay  ; 
To  humble  or  afflict  whome'er  he  will, 
To  gladden  or  to  grieve,  he  hath  like  skill ; 
But  most  his  might  he  sheds  on  the  eve  of  May 

For  every  true  heart,  gentle  heart  and  free, 

That  with  him  is,  or  thinketh  so  to  be, 

Now,  against  May,  shall  have  some  stirring, — whether 

To  joy,  or  be  it  some  mourning:  never, 

At  another  time,  methinks,  in  like  degree. 

For  now,  when  they  may  hear  the  small  birds'  song, 
And  see  the  budding  leaves  the  branches  throng, 
This  into  their  remembrance  doth  bring 
All  kinds  of  pleasure,  mixed  with  sorrowing; 
And  longing  for  sweet  thoughts  that  ever  long. 

And  of  that  longing  heaviness  doth  come, 

Whence  oft  great  sickness  grows  of  heart  and  home; 

Sick  are  they  all  for  lack  of  this  desire  ; 

And  thus  in  May  their  hearts  are  set  on  fire, 

So  that  they  burn  forth  in  great  martyrdom. 

Geoffrey  Chauceu. 


101 


The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

Asa  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  Eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist ; 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  matters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  time. 

For,  like  the  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's,  endless  toil  and  endeavour  ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 


io2  THE  DA  Y IS  DONE. 

Who  through  long  days  of  labour, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music. 

And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 

Aud  as  silently  steal  away. 

HKM'.V  WaXH-WOBTB  L    2CGFK'  LOW. 


•:f-7iSPEe¥/IvJyIEDllSH-> 

Andromeda,  by  Perseus  saved  and  wed, 
Hankered  each  day  to  see  the  Gorgon's  head : 
Till  o'er  a  fount  he  held  it,  bade  her  lean, 
And  mirrored  in  the  wave  was  safely  seen 
That  death  she  lived  by. 

Let  not  thine  eyes  know 
Any  forbidden  thing  itself  although 
It  once  should  save  as  well  as  kill :  but  be 
Its  shadow  upon  life  enough  for  thee. 

Dan ii:  Gabeikl  liOSSKTTI. 


"3 


PROLOG "K  TO  -THE  EARTULY  PARADISE." 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  110  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  fjr  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days  die, — 
Remember  me  a  little  then,  I  pray 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear  ; 
fck>  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because  they,  living  out,  can  ne'er  be  dead, 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  emyty  pay. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  my  due  time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


io4  AN  APOLOGY. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did  sIh>w 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  arow. 
While  still,  unheard,  butiu  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sen. 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  \y*  : 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall  way, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

William  Mor.;::v 


The  half-seen  memories  of  childish  days, 

When  pains  and  pleasures  lightly  came  and  w  lit; 

The  sympathies  of  boy-hood  rashly  spent 
In  fearful  wanderings  through  forbidden  ways ! 
The  vague  but  manly  wish  to  tread  the  maze 

Of  life  to  noble  ends  ;  whereon  iutent, 

Asking  to  know  for  what  man  here  was  sent, 
The  bravest  heart  must  often  pause,  and  gaze ; 
The  firm  resolve  to  seek  the  chosen  end 

Of  manhood's  judgement,  cautious  and  matur  e: 
Each  of  these  viewless  bonds  binds  friend  to  frieixi 

With  strength  no  selfish  purpose  can  secure ; 
My  happy  lot  is  this,  that  all  attend 

That  friendship  which  first  came,  and  which  shall  last 
endure. 

Aubrey  de  Vekk. 


IOS 


^}cfp-fPIIiIi^-!.0FT!FJIE-fCl£0UD*^ 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  thou  me  on  ! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home,  — 

Lead  thou  me  on  ! 
Keep  thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene,  — one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on  : 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path,  hut  now 

Lead  thou  me  on  ! 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will :  remember  not  past  years. 

Ho  long  thy  power  hath  blessed  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on  ; 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 

John,  Car  )Isa.l,  Newm.w 


^*JTOJFP^-Ii0YEf 


k^ 


A  mother's  love,  —how  sweet  the  name  ! 

What  is  a  mother's  love?  — 
A  noble,  pure,  and  tender  flame, 

Enkindled  from  above, 
To  bless  a  heart  of  earthly  mould ; 
The  warmest  love  that  can  grow  cold  ;— 

This  is  a  mother's  love. 

A  Mother's  Love.  James  Montgomery. 

14 


io6 


You  kiiovv  we  French  stormed  llatisbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,     "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  onue  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,  "— 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  ; 

You  hardly  could  suspect 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compres-sed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through,) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"  Well,  "  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grac 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  marshal  's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !  "    The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  hie  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP.        i  o  7 

The  chiefs  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
"  You  're  wounded!  "     "  Nay,  "  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
"  I  'm  killed  sire!  "     And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Kobkkt  Browning. 


The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  lied. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  onei1  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

Thomas  Moobe. 


tog 


:-priend^iPt= 


A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood 

The  surging  sea  outweighs  ; 

The  world  uncertain  comes  and  goes, 

The  lover  rooted  stays. 

I  fancied  he  was  fled,  — 

And,  after  many  a  year, 

Glowed  unexhausted  kindliness, 

Like  daily  sunrise  there. 

My  careful  heart  was  free  again  , 

O  friend,  my  bosom  said, 

Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 

Through  thee  the  rose  is  red ; 

All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  formT 

And  look  beyond  the  earth  ; 

The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 

A  sun-path  in  thy  worth. 

Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 

To  master  my  despair; 

The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 

Are  through  thy  friendship  fair. 

IUi.ph  Waldo  EmkisoN. 

On!  breathe  not  his  name!  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonoured  hi^  relics  arc  laid; 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grave  o'er  his  head, 

But  the  night  dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps  ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  hi*  memory  green  in  our  souls. 

Thomas  Moore. 


109 


When  music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell,  — 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting,  — 
Possessed  bej^ond  the  muse's  painting ; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined ; 
Till  once;  't  is  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 
Next  Anger  rushed;  his  eyes,  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings: 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 
Low,  sullen  sounds,  his  grief  beguiled,  — 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 
'T  was  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  't  was  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair,  — 

What  was  thy  delightful  measure? 
Htill  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 


THE  PASSIONS. 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  straiu  prolong  ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song ; 

And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close ; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  hair. 
And  longer  had  she  sung — but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose  ; 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down  ; 

And,  with  a  withering  look, 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe  ! 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat; 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 

Dejec  ed  Pity,  a!;  hil*  si  le, 

Her  soul-subduiug  voicj  applied, 
Yet  still  \\d  kipt  his  wild,  unaltered  riileiV, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting 
from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  t:>  naught  were  fixed — 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ; 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed  ; 

And  now  it  courted  Love — now,  raving,  called  on 
Hate. 

With  eyes  upraisad,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired  ; 
And  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound  ; 

Through   glades  and  glooms  the  mingled   measure 
stole; 


THE  PASSIONS.  m 

Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 

Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing, 

Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  oh  !  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone 

When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymplj  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Hor  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung — 

The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad  known ! 
The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  cliaste-eyed  queen, 
Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  ; 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 
And  Sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial  : 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 
First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best: 
They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain, 
They  saw,  in  Tempi's  vale,  her  native  maids, 
Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings; 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round  : 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound, 
And  he  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  d,>wy  wings. 

O  Music!  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  pleasure,  wisdom's  aid  ! 
Why,  goddess!  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 


THE  PASSIONS. 

You  learned  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard  ; 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chase,  sublime! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age. 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page ; 
'Tis  said  — and  I  believe  the  tale — 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age — 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found — 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound. 
Oh  hid  our  vain  endeavours  cease  ; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece ! 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state — 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  ! 

William  Collins. 

«HittC¥*> 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  was  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 
Kair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh  ! 

The  difference  to  me. 

William  Wordswokth. 


"3 


()  captain  !  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done; 

The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  ia 

won  ; 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vesselgrim  and 
daring  : 

But  O  heart!  heart !  heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

<)  Captain !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 
Rise  up— for  you  the  flag  is  flung— for   you   the   bugie 

trills  ; 
For   you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd   wreaths— for  you   the 

shores  a-crowding; 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 
turning; 

Here  Captaiu  !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  ; 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will : 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done ; 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship,  comes  in  with  object  won : 
Exult  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

Walt  Whitman. 


1 1.| 


-Ki:S/ID  -MS  :O7JR:Y0«'F}1.«- 

Sad  is  our  youth,  fjr  it  ever  is  g nng, 
Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet; 
Bad  is  our  life,  fjr  onward  it  is  flowing 
In  current  uuperceived,  because  so  fleet; 
!Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  were  sweet  in  sowing,— 
But  tares,  self  sown,  have  overtopped  the  wheat; 
Had  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in  blowing, — 
And  still,  O,  still  their  dying  breath  is  sWeet; 
And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft  us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter  still ; 
And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath  left  us 
A  nearer  good  to  cure  an  older  ill ; 

And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to  prize  them, 
Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  Who  grants  them  or  denies 
them ! 

AUBUEY  DK  Vkee. 


>*TOt01IR-Mi7IDY* 


Mother  !  whose  virgin  bosom  was  uucrost; 
With  the  least  shade  of  thought  to  sin  allied  ; 
Woman  !  above  all  women  glorified, 
Our  tainted  nature's  solitary  boast ; 
Purer  than  foam  on  central  ocean  tost ; 
Brighter  than  eastern  skies  at  daybreak  strewn 
With  fancied  roses,  than  the  unblemished  moon 
Before  her  wane  begins  on  heaven's  blue  coast; 
Thy  Image  falls  to  earth.     Yet  some,  I  ween, 
Not  unforgiven  the  suppliant  kuee  might  bend, 
As  to  a  visible  Power,  in  which  did  blend 
All  that  was  mixed  and  reconciled  in  thee 
Of  mother's  love  with  maiden  purity, 
Of  high  with  low,  celestial  with  terrene! 

William  Wordsworth  . 


Shall  I  oinpir.'  tbue  tj  a  Smnmjr's  day 

Thou  art  mora  lovely  and  more  temperate  ; 

Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 

And  Hummer's  lease  hath  all  to  short  a  date. 

Sometimes  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed, 

And  every  fair  from  fair  sometimes  declines, 

By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimmed 

But  thy  eternal  Summer  shall  not  fade, 

Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest; 

Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his  shade, 

When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest. 

Ho  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see 

So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

William  Shakespzark. 


•*ECK&fl]SDvSIItEpE.i* 

In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly, 

And  Autumn  in  her  lap  the  store  to  strew, 

Through  glens  uu trod, and  woods  that  frowned  on  high, 

Two  sleeping  nymphs  with  wonder  mute  I  spy  ! 

And,  lo,  she's  gone!  — In  robe  of  dark-green  hue, 

'T  was  Echo  from  her  sister  Silence  flew, 

For  quick  the  hunter's  horn  resounded  to  the  sky  ! 

In  shade  affrighted  Silence  melts  away. 

Not  so  her  sister.     Hark  !  for  onward  still, 

With  far-heard  step,  she  takes  her  listening  way, 

Bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  and  hill  to  hill. 

Ah !  mark  the  merry  maid  in  mockful  play 

With  thousand  mimic  tones  the  laughing  forest  till ! 

Sir.Samukl  Egerton  B  yoses. 


rid 


Froi  "  tee  rniKcrpp.  " 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes,  / 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow !  set  the  wild  echoes  flying; 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes— dying,  dying,  dying  ! 

O  hark  !  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going  ! 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  to  scar, 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes— dying,  dying,  dying! 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky  ; 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever 
Blow,  bugle,  blow  !  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer — dying,  dying,  dying! 

Alfred  Tknnyson. 

-5-cotse 

From  "  timer  go  by  tcrss.  " 

Not  always  fall  of  leaf,  nor  even  spring, 
Not  endless  night,  nor  yet  eternal  day : 

The  saddest  birds  a  season  find  to  sing, 
The  roughest  storm  a  calm  may  soon  allay. 

Thus,  with  succeeding  turns,  God  tempereth  all, 
That  man  may  hope  to  rise,  yet  fear  to  fall. 

Robert  Southwell,  S.  J. 


"7 


•*!mYSSES-> 

It  little  profits  that,  an  ide  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among-  these  barren  crags, 

Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me, 

t  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees  :  all  times  I  have  enjoyed 

Greatly,  have  suffered  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and  when 

Through  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vext  the  dim  sea :  I  am  become  a  name  ; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  1  seen  and  known  ;  cities  of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honoured  of  them  all ; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  With  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  Windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethrough 

Gleams  that  untraveled  World,  Whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 

I  low  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use! 

As  though  to  breathe  Were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains:  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  the  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  Were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought* 


u8  ULYSSES. 

This  is  my  sod,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people  and  through  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centered  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port:  the  vessel  puff's  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners, 
Souls  that   have  toiled,  and  wrought,  and  thought 

with  me— 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old. 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something,  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 
The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs  :  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come  my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  surrounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  though 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven  ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are  ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  heart?, 


ULYSSES.  119 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

Alfkkd  Tennyson, 


The  mother  of  muses,  we  are  taught, 
Is  Memory ;  she  has  left  me ;  they  remain, 
And  shake  my  shoulder,  urging  me  to  sing 
About  the  summer  days,  my  loves  of  old. 
<l  Alas  !  alas !  "  is  all  Mcan  reply* 
Memory  lias  left  with  me  that  name  alone, 
Harmonious  name,  which  other  bards  may  sing, 
But  her  bright  image  in  my  darkest  hour 
<Jomes  back,  in  vain  comes  back,  called  or  uncalled, 
Forgotten  are  the  names  of  visitors 
Ready  to  press  my  hand  but  yesterday; 
Forgotten  are  the  names  of  earlier  friends 
Whose  genial  converse  and  glad  countenance 
Are  fresh  as  ever  to  mine  ear  and  eye; 
To  these,  when  I  have  written,  and  besought 
Remembrance  of  me,  the  word  "  Dear  "  alone 
Hangs  on  the  upper  verge,  and  waits  in  vain. 
A  blessed  wert  thou,  O  Oblivon, 
If  thy  stream  carried  only  weeds  away, 
But  vernal  and  autumnal  flowers  alike 
It  hurries  down  to  wither  on  the  strand. 

Walter  Savage  Landor» 


A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 

Tossing  about  on  the  stormy  sea — 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast. 

The  sails  are  scattered  abroad  like  weeds ; 

The  strong-  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds  ; 

The  mighty  cables  and  iron  chains, 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains, — 

They  strain  and  they  crack ;  and  hearts  like  atone 

Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !  — up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's  crown, 

And  amidst  the  flashing  aud  feathery  foam, 

The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  home — 

A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wild  sea. 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and  teach  them  to  spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  of  their  stormy  wing! 

O'er  the  deep !  — o'er  the  deep  ! 

Where  the  whale,  aud  the  shark,  and  the  sword-fish 

sleep — 
Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  petrel  telleth  her  tale  — in  vain  ; 
For  the  mariner  cursith  the  warning  bird 
Which  briugeth  him  news  of  the  storm  unheard. 
Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still ! 
Yet  he  ne'er  falters  — so,  petrel,  spring ! 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing! 

Bryan  W.  Proctou  (llayry  Cornwall.) 


121 


In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland, 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward  and  lee, 
Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 

The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 

The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless  bed 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the  graves  of  its 
roses 

Now  lie  dead. 

The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken, 
To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  ong  lone  land.^ 

If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken, 

Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest's  hand? 

So  long  have  the  gray  bare  walks  lain  guestless, 
Through  branches  and  briers  if  a  man  make  way, 

He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  bliud  and  stifled 
That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 

To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have  rifled 
Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of  time. 

The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken  ; 
The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain. 

The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shakeu, 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  pressed  of  the  foot  that  falls  not ; 

As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are  dry  ; 
From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  nightingale  call*' 

not, 
Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to  reply. 

16 


i 21  A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN 

Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 
lliugs  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song ; 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  bums  sere  aud  the  raiu  dishevels 
One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 

Only  tbe  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In  a  round  Where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

Mere  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  Was  weeping". 
Haply  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 

Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  bandfast  in  heart  as  they  stood,  w  Look  thither,  'f 
Did  he  whisper?     w  Look  forth  from  the  flowers  to  the 
sea; 
For  tbe  foam    flowers  endure   when   the   rose-blossoms 
wither, 
And  men  that  love  lightly  may  die-^-but  we?    " 
And  the  same  Wind  sang  and  the  same  waves  whitened, 

And  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were  shed, 
In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that  had  light- 
ened, 

Love  Was  dead. 

Or  they  loved  their  Ufa  through, and  then  Went  whitlrer  ? 

And  Were  one  to  the  end— but  what  end  who  knows  ? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  roso  must  wither, 

As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the  rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to  love  them  ? 

What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them, 
Or  the  wave. 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the  sea 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  aoft  with  a  summer  to  be* 


A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN.  123 

!Not  a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons  hereafter 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lover*  that  laugh  dow  or  weep, 
When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and  laughter 
We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  for  ever; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From   the  graves    they    have   made  they  shall    rise  up 
never, 
Who  have  left  naught  living  to  ravage  and  rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground  growing, 

While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall  be; 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea. 

Till  the  slow  sea  rts's  and  the  sheer  cliff  crumble, 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 

Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides  humble 
The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink, 

Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter, 

Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand  spread, 

As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 
Death  lies  dead. 

Algernon  Charles  Swixburnk. 


So  have  I  seen,  to  dress  their  mistress,  May, 
Two  silken,  sister  flowers  consult,  and  lay 
Their  bashful  cheeks  together  :  newly  they 
Peeped  from  their  buds,  showed  like  the  garden's  eyes 
Scarce  waked:  like  was  the  crimson  of  their  joys; 
Like  were  the  pearls  they  wept;  so  like,  that  one 
Seemed  but  the  other's  kind  reflection. 

Richard  Crashaw 


124 


Wol'LDST  thou  bear  what  mau  can  say 

In  a  little?  —reader,  stay? 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 

As  much  beauty  as  could  die — 

Which  in  life  did  harbour  give 

To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth  — 

Th'  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death : 

Fitter,  where  it  died  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell  I 

Ben  Jowao*. 

OH  GOING*  TO  THE  WARS. 

Tell  me  not,  dear,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  heart  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  flee* 

True  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you,  too,  should  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honour  more. 

Richard  Lovelack. 


12 


■*4:fc0YE'S*gEHYICEsM- 

She  shroudeth  vice  in  virtue's  veil, 
Pretending  good  in  ill ; 
She  offereth  joy,  afFordeth  grief, 
A  kiss  where  she  doth  kill. 

A  honey-shower  rains  from  her  lips, 
toweet  lights  shine  from  her  face ; 
She  hath  the  blush  of  virgin's  mind, 
The  mind  of  viper's  race. 

She  makes  thee  seek,  yet  fear  to  find, 
To  find,  but  not  enjoy  ; 
In  many  frowns  some  gliding  smiles 
She  yields  the  more  t'  annoy. 

With  soothed  words  enthralled  souls 
She  chains  in  servile  bands; 
Her  eye  in  silence  hath  a  speech 
Which  eye  best  understands. 

Her  little  sweet  how  many  sours, 
Short  hap  immortal  harms  ; 
Her  loving  looks  are  murdering  darts, 
Her  songs  bewitching  charms. 

Her  diet  is  of  such  delights 
As  please  till  they  be  past; 
But  then  the  poison  kills  the  heart 
That  did  entice  the  taste. 

Plough  not  the  seas,  sow  not  tne  sands, 
Leave  off  your  idle  pain  ; 
Seek  other  mistress  for  your  minds  ; 
Love's  service  is  in  vain. 

ROBEUT   SOUTHWKLL,    S. 


126 


*K¥MN  :-BEF0RE  vSUNRISE~> 


[X  THK  VALK  OF  CHAMOUNT. 


Has  t  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
Id  his  steep  course?     So  long  he  s?ems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form, 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black  — 
An  ebon  mass.     Methinks  thou  piercest  it. 
As  with  a  wedge!     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home, thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !    I  gazed  on  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought.     Entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought  - 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy — 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing  — there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest!  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy !    Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !    Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale ! 
Oh,  struggling  with  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink  — 


HYMN  BEFORE  S  UNWISE.  1 2  7 

Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  — wake,  oh  wake,  and  utter  praise! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad, 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  hlack,  jagged  rocks, 
For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (aud  the  silence  came,) 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  aud  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents!  silent  cataracts ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?     Who  made  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who,  with  living  flower 
Of  lovliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? 
God !— -let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plaius  echo^  God  ! 
God  !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise! 


1 28  HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE. 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount!  with  thy  sky-pointing-  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  t'ie  pure  serene, 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !  thou 
That  as  I  rais«  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  oh  ever  rise  ! 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

Samuel  Taylob  Oolkiudge. 


How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  counts's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  ringers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  th*t  wraps  their  clay  ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there ! 

William  Collins. 


129 


'Twas  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne: 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned;) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre  ; 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  by  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above 
(Such  is  the  mighty  power  of  love  ) 
A  dagon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god  ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity  !  they  shout  around ; 
A  present  deity  !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

17 


>  ALEXANDER'S  FEAST. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus — ever  fair  aud  ever  young  ; 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes; 
Sound  the  trumpets  ;  beat  the  drums  : 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face  : 
Now  give  tne  hautboys  breath.     He  comes  !  he  comes  ! 
Bacchus  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pie-  sure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain  ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew 
the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  muse, 

Soft  pity  to  infuse : 
He  sung  Darius,  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 
The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 


AEEXANDERS  FEAST.  131 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain . 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head ; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge!  revenge!  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  furies  arise  ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  thir  eyes! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain, 
Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  the  hostile  gods  ! 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy  : 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy! 
Thus,  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 


i32  ALEXANDERS  FEAST. 

lQventre99  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prise, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

John  Drydkn. 


-hjcYIUME*- 


Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ! 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  turn  his  eye  ! 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave— 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie ; 
Thy  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber  never  gives  ; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

George  Herbert. 


33 


My  heart  's  In  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here  ; 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  Ihe  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birthplace  of  valour,  the  country  of  worth  ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  with  snow ; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below ; 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud  pouring  floods. 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here  ; 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart  'r  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

Robert  Burns. 


-*SPRIN6*- 


Now  the  lusty  spring  is  seen  ; 

Golden  yellow,  gaudy  blue, 

Daiutily  invite  the  view. 
Everywhere,  on  every  green, 
Roses  blushing  as  they  blow, 

And  enticing  men  to  pull; 
Lilies  whiter  than  the  snow  ; 

Woodbines  of  sweet  honey  full — 
All  love's  emblems,  and  all  cry: 
Gather  us  or  we  shall  die ! 

Beaumont  and  Flf.tchk 


'34 


"  HEBHEW   MKLODIES." 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies, 

And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes, 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  the  face, 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, — 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

Bykon. 


'35 

->«flETYiemTeF4D0]^I]MG0:t^- 

IN  THE  CHAPKI.  OF  OCR  LADY  OF  MOMTSERRAT. 

When*  at  thy  shrine,  most  holy  maid! 
The  Spaniard  hung  his  votive  blade, 

And  bared  his  helmed  brow — 
Not  that  he  fear'd  war's  visage  grim, 
Or  that  the  battle-field  for  him 

Had  aught  to  daunt,  I  trow  : 

"  Glory  !  "  he  cried,   n  with  thee  I've  done ! 
Fame!  thy  bright  theatres  I  shun, 

To  tread  fresh  pathways  now  ; 
To  track  thy  footsteps,  Saviour  God  ! 
With  throbbing  heart,  witli  feet  unshod : 

Hear  and  record  my  vow. 

Yef,  Thou  shalt  reign!  Chain'd  to  thy  throne, 
The  mind  of  man  thy  sway  shall  own, 

And  to  its  conqueror  bow. 
Genius  his  lyre  to  Thee  shall  lift, 
And  intellect  its  choicest  gift 

Proudly  on  Thee  bestow." 

Straight  on  the  marble  floor  he  knelt, 
And  in  his  breast  exulting  felt 

A  vivid  furnace  glow  ; 
Forth  to  his  task  the  giant  sped, 
Earth  shook  abroad  beneath  his  tread, 

And  idols  were  laid  low. 

India  repair'd  half  Europe's  loss  : 
O'er  a  new  hemisphere  the  Cross 

Shone  in  the  azure  sky  ; 
And,  from  the  isles  of  far  Japan 
To  the  broad  Andes,  won  o'er  man 

A  bloodless  victory ! 

Francis  Mahony,  Father  Prout. 


►:  • 


136 


W^^ 


She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened;  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  com. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  a  1  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim. 
Thus  she  stood  among  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean  ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Thomas  Hood. 


'37 


-HHja¥*JS7l!PIYE*Iflp: 


+:-<- 


It  chanced  to  me  upon  a  time  to  sail 

Across  the  Southern  ocean  to  and  fro  ; 
And  landing  at  fair  Isles,  by  stream  and  vale 

Of  sensuous  blessing  did  we  ofttimes  go. 
And  months  of  dre  imy  joys,  like  joys  In  sleep, 

Or  like  a  clear,  calm  stream  o'er  mossy  stone, 
Unnoted  passed  our  hearts  with  voiceless  sweep, 

And  left  us  yearning  still  for  lands  unknown. 

And  when  found  one, — for  't  is  not  hard  to  find 

In  thousand-isled  Cathay  another  isle, — 
For  one  short  noon  its  treasur3S  filled  the  mind. 

And  then  again  we  yearned,  and  ceased  to  smile. 
And  so  it  was,  from  isle  to  isle  we  passed, 

Like  wanton  bees  or  boys  on  flowers  or  lips ; 
And  when  that  all  was  tasted,  then  at  last 

We  thirsted  still  for  draughts  instead  of  sips. 

I  learned  from  this  there  is  no  Southern  land 

Can  fill  with  love  the  hearts  of  Northern  men. 
Sick  minds  need  change ;  but,  when  in  health  they  stand 

'Neath  foreign  skies,  their  love  flies  home  again. 
And  thus  with  me  it  was  :  the  yearning  turned 

From  laden  airs  of  cinnamon  away, 
And  stretched  far  westward,  while  the  full  heart  burned 

With  love  for  Ireland,  looking  on  Cathay ! 

My  first  dear  love,  all  dearer  for  thy  grief! 

My  land,  that  has  no  peer  in  all  the  sea 
For  verdure,  vale,  or  river,  flower  or  leaf, — 

If  first  to  no  man  else,  thou  'rt  first  to  me. 
New  loves  may  come  with  duties,  but  the  first 

Is  deepest  yet,  —the  mother's  breath  and  smiles  : 
Like  that  kind  face  and  breast  where  I  was  nursed 

Is  my  poor  land,  the  Niobe  of  isles. 

John  Boyle  O'Ueilly. 

18 


is8 


What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Qowu  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 
Spieading  ruin  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
Aud  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 

Willi  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river? 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep,  cool  bed  of  the  river, 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 

And  the  broken  lilies  ading  lay, 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river, 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can 
With  his  hard,  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 

(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !) 
Then  drew  out  the  pith  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 
Then  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 

In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

"  This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan, 

(Laughed  while  he  sate  by  the  river! 
"  The  only  way  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 


A  MUSIC  A  L  INSTR  UMENT.  1 39 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan, 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man. 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  the  pain,— 
For  the  reed  that  grows  never  more  again 

Asa  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 

Elizabeth  Babuett  Bbowning. 


•0N-fFI^JF-Mf§0KIN6^IN¥0-fCP?IPM7IN'g<- 

Much  have  T  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  oue  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That  deep-biowed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne; 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

John  Keats. 


